Freedom's Limits
by Zoop
Summary: "He had only come across such vileness once before, three years past. Then, it had been a Woman with an orc lover. She had been beyond redemption, defending her monstrous partner as though it were her goodly husband." - 'Splint,' by helenamarkos. Who were they? What was their story? With the gracious permission of the author, Zoop is about to tell you... Cover art by helenamarkos.
1. Prologue: Hanging

**Freedom's Limits**

**Note from the Zoop: **Let this be a warning - don't make idle mention of Orc x Woman pairings if you don't want the Zoop grabbing them with both hands and telling their story. Helena Markos fell into this trap with a single paragraph in _Splint_, and has graciously granted me permission to adopt her ill-fated lovers. This is the _Splint_ universe and follows Helena Markos's rules. I hope I don't have to guide your steps to reading that amazing story. If you haven't read _Splint_, don't deny yourself the privilege any longer.

There is a certain appeal in crafting a tragic love story, of watching the doomed lovers meet and connect only to be torn asunder. We go in knowing how it will end, yet we still hope it was an illusion. Their fate can't possibly be what we were led to believe. The worst part of it is... our hopes are in vain, aren't they? Fetch your hankies, folks. I'll most certainly have a few on hand myself.

**Note from Helena Markos: **When Zoop asked to "adopt" my wayward, barely mentioned couple from _Splint_, I was a little surprised. When she still wanted to write this story after the copious amount of PMs and docXes I sent outlining orcish behavior and physiology, the people of Harad, the slaves of Barad dur and the massive amounts of timelines and side notes and character notes I gave her, I was honestly completely shocked.

I really can't think of anyone better to write this story. I feel like Zoop's penchant for orcish romance is practically legendary at this point. When I read the outline, I'll admit, I was a bit misty. To see someone take all of the ridiculous amount of work you've done and make a story in your world is immensely humbling, and I am so grateful that she has done it here.

So, while we start at the end, and it may seem a sad beginning, I think you may be surprised at the glimmer in the end. Thanks again, Zoopers. You're the best! :D

* * *

**Prologue: Hanging**

She'd never sat a horse in all her life, and now at the end of it, she found the broad back most uncomfortable. She sat straight with her hands bound behind her back. One of the men who condemned her had cut open her dress and pulled it down from her shoulders, exposing her to the waist so all might see the marks made upon her flesh as proof of her sins.

He'd tried other things as well, but the cold man in black stopped him. He'd said it wasn't _right_.

Madavi held her gaze steadily in the distance, a strange calm setting in as his men mocked and reviled her. Brow pinching in confusion, she went over every small thing that had happened, every insignificant detail, searching desperately for what she must have missed.

How had she come to this? Where had she gone astray? Did not free people live as they wished? Wasn't _she_ free? No one saw fit to tell her what it meant to be free. She'd been given a thing she knew nothing about by a King whose face she never saw, with a name she couldn't remember, from a land she'd never seen.

Smador told her once that there were limits to freedom. If there were lines drawn upon this 'freedom,' boundaries beyond which none were allowed to step, Madavi was not informed of _that_ either. She had only her own nature to guide her, and so she did not steal or murder. She spoke no insulting word. She had never caused even minor injury, much less stood idly by and allowed it to happen.

Yet she was condemned. She sat upon the horse beneath the tree, accused of depravity by men she didn't know who declared that her deeds were so great in their foulness that the continuation of her existence threatened the lives of all decent folk. The man in black admonished them, yet his words were no better. He spoke of the taint upon her soul, the mark of the Shadow that must be expunged lest it fester and so spread like the storm of Mordor of years past.

She could only see their words as lies, for she was not the person they described. They did not listen to her desperate pleading when they pried her son from her arms and crushed his skull beneath their boots. They did not hear her wail of despair when they cut down her grief-stricken mate.

Who drew the line? Why did no one tell her of it? Was the line placed differently depending upon who drew it? How was she to know? Why was death the punishment for ignorance?

And why was her son, not yet weaned from her breast and innocent of all sin, punished as well? Why was he, made with love in their hearts and smiles upon their faces, called a foul abomination unfit to live?

Madavi took some comfort in knowing that her daughter had escaped. These Men took such delight in murdering Rauni before her eyes, she had no doubt if they'd caught Amani, they would make her watch that as well.

The rough texture of the rope brushing her cheek as the noose dropped about her neck made Madavi's breath quicken. The man in black's face was somber as he leaned close from the back of his horse and adjusted the noose. He considered her beyond redemption, and claimed her fate was in the hands of Eru now.

She'd been told once of Those Who Listened, and hoped They would hear her now.

_Please_, she silently begged, _watch over my Amani._ Even within herself, speaking to a Power she knew little about, she could not demand. _If it would not be too much trouble,_ she pleaded, _for I know I haven't the right to ask it, could I go to Smador? Wherever he has gone? If that is not right, and Men do not go to the same place as Orcs, then please see that Rauni finds his da. He is so small. He would be so afraid if he was alone._

The noose was yanked tight, barely allowing room to swallow, even less to breathe. She heard the smack against the horse's rump, felt the animal's body tense and muscles bunch as it bolted, and in that brief moment before the rope snapped taught, Madavi remembered...


	2. Chapter 1: Beginning

**Chapter 1: Beginning**

It was the unexpectedly foul reek assaulting her nose that alerted Madavi to the intruder in the cellar. She'd gone down to fetch another basket of taters for the midday meal, and there it was: the stench of the sewers. Blanching, she covered her nose and mouth with a kerchief and searched the shadows. The Matron would not be pleased if the tunnels were clogging up so soon before an influx of Men filled the barracks.

Below the stairs was a barrel of scraps and offal intended for Master's wargs, and tipped headfirst into that barrel was a _snaga_ Orc. Huffing impatiently, Madavi shifted her burden to her hip and scolded, "Here, now! Clear out of there!"

The Orc scrambled from the barrel, his features greased from the fat and guts, and gave her a startled look.

"Go on!" she snapped, shooing him off.

Green eyes glittering in the dimness, he grinned toothily at her. With a wink, he snatched another handful and stuffed it in his mouth, then darted away between stacks of crates.

"Cheeky imp!" she cried indignantly. She didn't dare follow him into whatever hole he'd disappeared through; the Matron was full of stories describing the folly of children chasing Orcs down rat holes, never to be heard from again. Had she not herself known one little boy who did just that and disappeared, she might have scoffed at such tales meant to frighten the younger ones.

Madavi was born in Barad'dûr, in the service of the Eye. She'd grown up around Orcs, fetched and carried side-by-side with her fellow _snaga,_ both Man and Orc. She knew better than to think the boy met any other fate than the stew pot down in the Orcish kitchens.

Shaking her head, she trudged back up the stairs. Though she firmly believed stealing was wrong, at least he pilfered the warg food. Not many cared if a handful went missing from _their_ meals. It would likely go unnoticed, and no one would be blamed for the theft. The Matron didn't wield a whip like her Orcish counterpart in the lower kitchens, but she had a willow switch that hurt just as much.

* * *

Not a day later, the _snaga_ Orc was back, this time boldly digging into the jerked meat held back for the Mannish soldiers' rations. This was too much; the contents of the scraps barrel wasn't inventoried, but the rations were. Madavi chased him off with a broom this time.

But she got a better look at him than before, and her brow furrowed at the sight of him. He was one of those long-armed Orcs who tended to go about on all fours. What caught her attention, though, was how thin he looked. Orcs were known to be hungry all the time; that was enough to explain away the thieving. This one seemed to be _starving_.

He was barely dressed as well, clad only in a loincloth. She wondered if he'd been given anything else. She rarely saw the _snaga_ Orcs so bare, and not because they were particularly modest. It simply wasn't safe to go unclothed with so many bared weapons about.

Then there was his smell to consider. It announced him more clearly than the clarion calls telling the soldiers when and where to muster. If he was acquiring a stink like that, he couldn't be too far from the bottom. The _snaga_ Men had their hierarchies, delegating the unsavory tasks to the young ones with little experience, the ones who hadn't established any kind of reputation for being skillful in a particular area yet. Among the _snaga_ Orcs, there was a similar ordering, though how it was established escaped her understanding. The 'unsavory' tasks, though, typically involved the sewer tunnels.

Madavi worried for him then. From what she knew of Orcs, he likely got shoved aside or wrestled to the ground when rations were distributed. It was no wonder he came to the Upper kitchens! There was so much Men wouldn't eat off a beast, the guts included. Only the wargs benefited from that waste.

Regardless, stealing was wrong. Not only did it hurt the one stolen from, it wasn't tolerated. Terrible punishments were meted out if anyone was caught at it. She hated the idea that this Orc, likely no older than her thirteen years, was getting off to such a bad start. She resolved to help him.

* * *

The following day, Madavi took her assigned meal down to the storeroom to eat, hoping the Orc would appear. She ate slowly, stretching her neck to see into the darkest corners. She wondered if he stayed away because she was there, and worried her lip. Perhaps she shouldn't have spoken so harshly.

When she'd eaten half her bread and had started on half the strip of salt pork, her nose wrinkled of its own accord. A wave of sympathy went through her; he really was _far_ down in the pecking order, wasn't he?

His dark form flitted between the barrels at the back of the cellar. Madavi set her meal aside and stood.

"Hello!" she called, making sure she sounded welcoming. "No, don't run!"

The Orc froze, his body tensed to spring back into the shadows. He slowly turned his head to look at her with large, green eyes.

Madavi timidly approached, but kept a cautious distance from him. "Are... are you hungry? I've a bit of food I can spare. You needn't steal."

"Whatchou doin' that fer?" he asked, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

"Well... it isn't _right_, you see?" she told him as reasonably as she could.

"What ain't right?" he growled.

"Stealing," she replied pointedly. "We're not supposed to. If the Matron caught you..."

Snorting indelicately, the Orc smirked. "Ol' biddy can't see nothin'. Been down'ere pinchin' shit for days, right under'er big nose..."

"Yes, well, I'm sure you're quite clever," she interrupted. "Please. I can share with you. It's no trouble."

"Why you wanna do that?" He tilted his head to the side and regarded her warily.

Sighing, she shrugged. "It's just not right, stealing. Come along, now. I have salt pork and bread. It's much better than the soldiers' rations, and a sight better than what's in those barrels." Turning, she went back to her perch on the stairs and sat down. The Orc hesitantly followed.

"Sit," she directed, patting the step next to her. Though every moment in his odiferous presence was a trial, Madavi was determined to muddle through. Uncertainly, he joined her. She smiled pleasantly and handed him half her meal. Shrugging, he bit a chunk off the pork and chewed quickly and noisily.

Smiling with satisfaction, Madavi took delicate bites of her own pork. After a few minutes of quiet, broken only by the Orc's occasional groan as he savored the meat, she ventured a bit of conversation.

"I am Madavi," she told him. "What is your name?"

Swallowing his mouthful, he glanced up at her. "Smador."

"I am very pleased to meet you, Smador," she beamed. "Have you been in Barad'dûr long? I've not seen you before."

He shrugged. "Born here. Mum's in the pits. Got big enough to work, so I got bunged out." Furrowing his heavy brow thoughtfully, he guessed, "Been 'bout a year, I expect."

"So long?" Madavi asked with surprise. "Goodness. I thought I knew all the Orcs working the kitchens..."

"Not in the kitchens," Smador pointed out, then ducked his head. His voice was low; he wasn't proud of his duty. "In the tunnels, mostly. Gotta dig'em out when they plug up. Some'uh them rat nests is kinduh big. Gotta break'em up." Cobbling together some dignity, he boasted, "Ain't nobody knows 'em tunnels like ol' Smador does." Jerking his chin toward a shadowy corner, he added with a grin, "Finally found one'at leads 'ere. Good eatin' in the Man kitchens."

"It does seem as though you spend a good deal of time in the tunnels," she said without thinking. She winced when she realized she might've insulted him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean..."

"'S'okay," Smador muttered, looking away.

Madavi decided to change the subject. Casting about, she noticed particular scars on his face that seemed more deliberate than any of the others about his body. "You have curious markings on your cheek. What are they for?"

"Mum's clan," he said, running a clawed finger lightly over the twin jagged scars. "She don't remember much 'bout'em. They come from the south." He shrugged. "Mum's mum had'em, too. She puts'em on all'er sprogs 'fore they's taken from'er."

"Why?" she asked.

He shrugged again. "Cause'er mum done it."

Madavi nodded. "I don't remember my mother. I'm told this was hers, but I don't know." She touched the faded blue and yellow floral scarf covering her black hair and draped loosely around her neck.

Smador looked at her for several moments as though he felt sorry for her. Madavi wondered at that; she was so accustomed to having no family, it didn't seem out of the ordinary. Perhaps Smador pitied her lack. He had his mum, and some sense of where he came from. She honestly had never thought about either of these things before.

"Better git," the Orc sighed, standing up. Madavi stood as well.

"I'll take my meals here, and you may join me," she told him.

He arched his brow a bit, but otherwise made no reply. Nodding to her, he shuffled off to the rear of the cellar, and soon she could no longer hear the slapping sounds of his bare feet on the stone.

* * *

The next time Smador met her in the dimly-lit cellar, she knew right away something was different.

"Why, Smador," she said as they settled on the step and she unwrapped her meal, "you've moved up, haven't you?"

Hiding his smile rather unsuccessfully, he said, "_Nar_, same old job."

Leaning over with suspicious amusement, she whispered, "I do believe you've washed." She passed him a good portion of meat and bread.

Smador accepted her offering with a pleased grin.


	3. Chapter 2: Reinforcing

**Chapter 2: Reinforcing**

"Put yer backs into it, or I'll have _you_ in the pot!" the Matron barked.

Madavi struggled along with Pratima, her elder by at least two seasons, to drag the great cookpot from the closet across the kitchen to the hearth. They shared a giggle over the Matron's threat; all knew the Men didn't eat little girls, in spite of her insistence to the contrary. Now if she'd threatened to send them down to the Orcish kitchens...

Not more than a few days had passed since Madavi began sharing meals with Smador, and the reinforcements had finally arrived from the East. Now she wasn't the only one coming down to fetch ingredients for the Matron's soups and stews. There were many more mouths to feed among the soldiery, and that required many more hands to cook. Her meetings with Smador became hurried affairs; she didn't want him getting in trouble for spending too much time in the Upper kitchens' storerooms.

Once the pot was in position, the two girls joined Sima at one of the tables, cutting up taters and carrots, onions and leeks, chunks of lard, slabs of meat... The tables were heaped with raw ingredients. The _snaga_ girls and boys were ranged up and down the four tables set in the center of the kitchen, hands and knives working briskly and more-or-less efficiently.

The Matron kept a keen eye on them all, stalking back and forth, making sure they prepared the right vegetables in the right order, and the runners didn't drop anything as they scurried back and forth from table to pot. The latter duty fell to the youngest. Pratima often referred to the Matron as a wraith, for the old woman had been deep in the bowels of the tower for so long, her shriveled skin was pale from lack of light. Madavi heard once that the Matron even ran the Orcish kitchens ages ago, until a suitable replacement was bred and raised up proper. It was speculated, privately of course, that the Matron taught _that_ cruel taskmaster everything he knew.

Checking over her shoulder, Pratima whispered to Madavi, "I heard they're Mamlakah."

Furrowing her brow, but not taking her eyes off her work, Madavi asked, "Who?"

"The _Men_," Pratima said impatiently. "Who do you think we're making all this for, hmm?"

Madavi shrugged. "I generally don't ask."

"Hmph," Pratima snorted. "Well, I suppose Matron _did_ box my ear for asking, but I got from an Orc that they marched in through the Gates this morning." She sighed wistfully. "They don't pick one of us often, but when they do, they're quite generous."

"Matron says I'll be serving today," Madavi said casually, though inside she was somewhat nervous.

"Well, pretty as you are," Sima chimed in, "you'll get _lots_ of coin."

"Oh, hush," Pratima snapped. "_That_ lot doesn't want someone as young as Madavi." Pausing in her work to pat Madavi on the shoulder, she added, "Not that you aren't pretty, dear. You're certain to be taken Upstairs when you're older."

Noting Pratima's pinched brow, Madavi gave her a hug. "You as well. You'll be dressed in silks and bathed in scented oils, Pratima. Just you wait."

"You're sweet," Pratima beamed.

"I'll be for the barracks, I'm sure," Sima muttered. "I don't fancy laundering those stinky Men's clothing. That's likely _all_ I'll be wanted for. They don't give you coins for scrubbing their underthings."

Chuckling, Pratima teased, "Some of the Orcs aren't particular, and I've heard the Women aren't too keen on warming _their_ beds. I'm sure you'll find _something_ to do."

"Ew," Sima grimaced.

Rounding on Madavi, Pratima asked, "What of your little friend, then? _He_ hasn't been after you, has he?"

"Of course not," Madavi admonished. "We just talk. It's nice not to have to do anything for a little while."

"What can you possibly talk about with one of them?" Sima asked.

"Oh, this and that," Madavi shrugged. "Little things. Small talk, mostly. He tells me what things are like below, I tell him how it is up here."

"Sounds dreadfully dull," Pratima declared. "Well, if you _do_ get picked, go straight to the Matron after. She'll want to give you the Herb."

Madavi glanced up from her neatly sliced carrots. "Herb?"

"So the man doesn't get you with child," the older girl said haughtily, pleased to know something they didn't. "Matron doesn't want us dropping babies when there's work to be done." Shaking her head, Pratima said, "It doesn't seem to work if you've been had at by an Orc, though. I saw that just a couple weeks ago. Poor woman; I don't even know if she lived after it was stopped, it was so late."

"What happened?" Sima hissed, scenting a scandalous tale and not wanting to miss a breath of it.

"Well," Pratima began in a conspiratorial undertone, "of course the woman was working in the barracks. She was _just_ beginning to show, because our folks hadn't managed to kill the thing early. None of the Matrons could seem to get rid of it in the normal way, so they called that grumpy old badger, Grazad, in to see to it. That old hag is older than dirt, so she's always got a helper with her. She must've eaten her other one, because she had a new one with her. Such cheek, that one! I didn't fetch her a bucket quick enough to please her, and she _cuffed_ me! I shan't forget the brat's name anytime soon, the old bat was shouting it so much. _Rukhash, fetch me a knife! Rukhash, move yer arse! Rukhash, yuh skinny cunt, tie this off!_" Pratima laughed at her own imitation of the Goblin midwife.

"Enough'uh yer chatter!" the Matron squawked behind them. Madavi cringed and glanced over her shoulder. Thankfully, the switch wasn't raised, but the old woman's hawkish features were glaring beadily at the trio. They ducked their heads and worked furiously for several minutes until the threat wandered down to the next table.

"That doesn't happen often, though," Pratima whispered. "Orcs keep to themselves, mostly."

"What's it like, with the Men?" Madavi asked quietly.

"The first time, it hurts a bit, but after that..." Pratima shrugged. Seeing Madavi's worry, she smiled sympathetically. "Matron's switch hurts far worse, believe me. My advice is, don't fuss. The less you fuss, the sooner they finish with you."

* * *

The children past the age of thirteen ranged about the mess hall, trays loaded with bowls of rich stew in their arms. Madavi was grateful that she was assigned this duty now; had she been even a little younger, she wouldn't have been able to carry the weight of so many bowls at once.

As Madavi waited for an older boy to ladle stew into the clay bowls on her tray, the Matron sidled up to her and said in an even voice, "See that yer polite, now. Don't get cheeky with'em. This lot's mostly outta Mamlakah, so it ain't likely they'll fiddle with yuh. But just you remember yer place; one of'em picks yuh, you do what he wants or the Mouth'll hear about it. Now, if one of'em _does_ have yuh, come see me and I'll see to his leavin's. Understand?"

Madavi nodded swiftly, then let out a nervously shuddering breath. The Matron moved on down, no doubt giving the same instructions to the other boys and girls entering the mess hall for the first time.

Because the trays got unwieldy for the younger servers as bowls were taken off, they held the trays with both hands. The Men were obliged to take their bowl themselves, which invariably interrupted their conversations. Madavi shuffled from one soldier to the next, pausing long enough for them to notice her and retrieve their ration before moving on. When her tray was empty, she hastened to the kitchens for more.

There were hundreds of Men in the mess hall that day, far more than usual, and Madavi felt run off her feet fetching second helpings and refilling mugs with weak beer. Her bottom was patted frequently as she moved about, but none actually took her in hand. There was a great deal of laughter among the Men as the meal wore on and more mugs were drained.

It was when she was filling the mug of a soldier just beginning to show grey in his dark hair that her arm was grabbed rather roughly, nearly making her spill the beer. Startled, she looked at the soldier's face, forgetting for a moment that she wasn't supposed to do that.

The way he was looking her up and down made her feel uncomfortable and confused. She didn't understand the southern tongue, but she could tell by the tone of his fellows' voices that they were advising him to leave her be.

_Oh_, she realized, _I'm being picked, aren't I?_ Lowering her gaze, she tried to appear as meek and non-fussy as possible.

The soldier stood, waving away his fellows' concerns, and steered Madavi out of the hall. Her breath quickened with fear, but she kept reminding herself, _Don't fuss and he'll finish sooner. Don't fuss._ Yet she hugged that flagon of beer to her chest tightly.

There were many little closets and storerooms on this level, and he directed her clumsy feet into one. She barely noted which one it was. Taking the flagon from her hands, he set it on the floor and hoisted her up to sit on a crate.

As he unlaced the front of his breeches, Madavi quickly looked away. She fixed her eyes on the shelf to her left, noting the different sizes of the cast iron pots stacked in neat rows. He pushed up her skirt and she counted the sacks of flour stamped with the markings of Rhûn upon them.

The sting made her lose count. Shifting from the flour, she speculated on how many loaves of bread would be needed in the morning. It was likely she'd be woken before the dawn to begin mixing the dough. But first, there was the washing up to do. So many bowls to clean after such a large gathering...

The soldier stepped back, apparently finished. He seemed slightly ill, and couldn't seem to look at her face as he tied up his laces. Madavi took that as the cue to cover herself, and twitched her skirt back down over her knees. He fished about in a pouch on his belt, then awkwardly placed a few coppers on the crate next to her. Without another word or a glance, he left the room.

Madavi released a long breath. Hopping down from the crate, she picked up her coins and examined them. They were the first ones she'd ever seen, and were most intriguing. On one side, a Man's head was imprinted. On the other, some sort of leafy plant, though it was difficult to tell for certain.

Pocketing the coins, she paused for a moment to collect herself. She supposed it hadn't been so bad, being picked. Certainly not the worst thing she'd been made to do. Checking to make sure her head scarf was still properly in place, she picked up the flagon and went to find the Matron.


	4. Chapter 3: Kneading

**Chapter 3: Kneading**

The remainder of the afternoon was spent in the kitchens, elbow-deep in mounds of dough. Runners brought the ingredients – flour from Rhûn-stamped bags – and portions saved from the last baking. Madavi's fingers dug into the dough, mixing the water and flour in, then rolling the mass into a fist-sized ball. The balls were then placed in neat rows on large metal trays and shaped. A pair of older boys carried the trays to a cool, dark corner to rise overnight.

There wasn't much opportunity for getting away. Madavi missed her chance at taking a meal of her own when the soldier picked her, and was obliged to wait until nightfall and the evening meal to see Smador now.

"At least he didn't hurt you," Pratima said when Madavi mentioned the soldier. "I know a girl that worked in the barracks whose hips got bruised from one of those Husami Men, he was so rough."

"Did you get any coins?" Sima asked hopefully.

"Yes, a few," Madavi replied. She wiped her hands on her apron and produced the coins. The girls leaned in close to see in the dim light.

"Oh, those are fine," Sima sighed wistfully. "And so many! Didn't I say you were pretty?"

"Better hide those away," Pratima advised, glancing around. "Matron'll have them from you if she sees them." Madavi quickly stuffed the four coins back into her pocket. The three girls dug into the dough once again.

The shaping of the bread dough was carefully done, for the Matron had been instructed to remind the soldiers of whom they served. Madavi meticulously shaped hers into an oval with tapered ends, and Pratima used a knife to slit the pupil of an eye. Sima's efforts at shaping were rather lopsided. Madavi spared her a beating, automatically correcting them before the trays were taken away.

By evening, Madavi could barely move her fingers and her wrists were puffy and sore. They made bread frequently, but rarely in such massive quantities. She wondered if the Master's war was reaching some sort of important point to warrant such a large influx of Men. It wasn't her place, or that of any other slave in the tower, to ask, but rumors were rampant and the Men didn't guard their talk at the table. Only the strangeness of their tongue kept anyone from knowing what they said.

But some _did_ know their tongue, and dutifully fed the rumor mill with what was learned.

Madavi wasn't as interested in gossip as Sima, so she left as soon as her shift was over and her meal was given. She'd hoped the midday ration would be added in, but none seemed to notice or care that she'd missed it. Sighing, she accepted her wrapped package and scurried away to the storeroom.

Taking the lantern from a hook by the door, she descended the stairs into the darkness. When she was much younger, the mountains of crates and boxes, barrels and bags, frightened her, for the shadows cast by the lantern's flame danced luridly behind them like monsters. She'd even feared Orcs at first, for they had large, almost luminous eyes and sharp teeth. As she grew, though, she learned there were far worse things to fear. The Matron was one of them. The main storeroom held less threat after a few rounds of the Matron's displeasure.

As usual, Smador waited in the shadows until he was sure she was alone, then he crept forward and joined her on the step. Madavi tried to open the wrapping, but found it too painful with her joints so stiff.

"Forgive me, Smador," she finally said. "Could you take your half, please? My hands are so sore."

"Whatcha been doin' up' 'ere?" he asked, taking the package and dividing the contents.

"Making bread," she replied. "A _lot_ of bread."

"How's'at done, then?" he said. He put her portion into her lap and began idly chewing on his half of the meat as he listened.

Madavi described the process for him, and was quite amused when he began examining his chunk of bread with new interest.

"All that, for this bit?" he said. "Seems like a lotta shit yuh ain't gettin' much from."

"I suppose you're right," she laughed. "But when it's freshly made, it tastes very good. What we get," she said, gesturing at the hard, stale bread from her ration, "isn't very fresh. So _now_, it doesn't seem like all that effort was worthy of the end result."

"Most'uh the shit I do don't seem worth it," he growled in agreement. "Dig out a tunnel full'uh shit one day, gotta dig the same one out the next. Rats only make their nests in a different tunnel, so I keep bungin'em out every day. Feel like I oughta mark them rats so's I know whether I's bungin' the same ones every time."

"You don't... kill them?" she asked timidly. She would've expected an orc would slay the rodents indiscriminately. It's likely what a Man in Smador's position would do. They were pests and nuisances, and they spread diseases. A worse offense by far, to the Matron at any rate, was their tendency to break into the food stores and leave their droppings in the grain. Grain which invariably found its way down to the Orcish kitchens, the orcs likely none the wiser of the grain's spoiling, knowing the Matron.

Smador shook his head. "Nar, they's just livin', same as me. Kinda nice, sometimes, havin' company." He glanced at her and smiled a little sheepishly.

"It is," she agreed, returning his smile warmly.

"'Ere," he said, setting the food aside and taking one of her hands. "Let ol' Smador do somethin' fer yuh."

Curious, Madavi watched as he carefully stroked her hand, rubbing the pads of his clawed fingers along the sinews and down each finger. In short order, she felt relief from the cramped muscles and sore joints. Closing her eyes and smiling, she sighed.

"That feels very good, Smador," she murmured.

"Can't have the Matron takin' a switch to yuh," he replied softly. "She caught me at midday, waitin'. Thought Gurathogg seein' to the Lower kitchens was a right prick. Guess them rumors was true: yer Matron done taught'im his shit, and yuh ain't never so good at it as yer teacher." Snorting with amusement, he took up her other hand and repeated the treatment.

Flexing her free hand gratefully, she chuckled. "I'd heard that rumor myself." Her smile faded, and her brow pinched with apology. "I'm so sorry I wasn't able to come, Smador. I just couldn't get away."

"Eh, ain'uh worry," he shrugged. "I got by, same as always."

"You didn't steal, did you?" she asked suspiciously.

Sighing, he looked at her with a touch of impatience. "Never mind it."

"I'm sorry," she muttered, chagrined. "Forget I said anything."

"I never forget nothin' you say," he replied. Madavi glanced up with surprise at his words, but he was grinning. "An' I know yuh don' like me stealin'. Ain' easy gettin' by down below 'less yuh do."

She nodded. He released her hand and she flexed that one as well. "Thank you for this," she said. "You're full of surprises."

"Don't just learn 'bout how to move shit around down there," he laughed.

"Of course not," she smiled. "Oh, I've something to show you." Madavi brought out her coins and laid them out on her palm. "Aren't they lovely?"

"Where'd yuh get'em?" Smador asked, his voice full of awe as he looked them over.

"I... I was picked today," she said as casually as she could. "The Man gave them to me... after."

"Picked, eh?" he nodded, glancing at her face. His brow furrowed slightly. "Yuh all right?"

"Yes," she said dismissively. "It wasn't... so bad, really."

"Hmph," he grunted, going back to the coins and turning one over to see the other side. "Got my first 'bout a week ago. Some skinny bit what's been 'round a few weeks, runnin' after the midwife. Didn' see much of'er 'fore; less now."

"Did it... was it all right?" she asked awkwardly, unsure if she should even be asking about such things. Still, she was curious. They seemed to have had similar experiences at nearly the same time.

Smador shrugged. "Guess so. Lookit this," he said, and pointed to a somewhat fresh bite mark on his shoulder. He straightened proudly, as though such a mark were something to boast of. "Can't've been so bad if she done this, eh?"

"Is that... a good thing?" Madavi asked with considerable alarm. It looked to be quite painful, actually.

"Yeah," he nodded. "She got a few tuh'member me by, too." Winking, he grinned.

Brow wrinkling with uncertainty, Madavi gave him a wan smile in return. Though they sometimes spoke of their differences, which never seemed so great, this biting business made her a bit uncomfortable. Smador's grin faded a little.

"Orcs don't go bitin' just anybody," he said, attempting to reassure her.

"Well, thankfully Men _don't_ bite," Madavi said, putting on a prim act to cover her discomfort and sitting up straight, smoothing her skirts.

"Don' know what they's missin'," he growled, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. She rolled her eyes and shook her head, laughing.

"Here," she said, taking two of the coins and giving them over. "For my hands."

He blinked with surprise at the unexpected gift. "Any time, Madavi," he grinned.

* * *

The host of Men didn't stay in the fortress of Barad'dur long. Soon after they arrived, companies began forming and departing for the Gates again. Now the kitchen slaves' duties were tenfold: the Men leaving required great quantities of rations to sustain them on the march, while the remaining ones not yet assigned still needed their daily meals. The Upper kitchens were kept busy from well before the dawn to deep into the night, or what passed for such times now that the Master's storm of war had rolled thick clouds across the Plateau of Gorgoroth and beyond the Ephel Duath.

Those that remained didn't do so for long either. Each day, there were fewer Men in the barracks, and so fewer in the mess hall, yet the lighter load wasn't felt by the kitchen help. Madavi cut meat into strips while Pratima rubbed the strips with salt. Sima had long been a runner to the ovens to deliver the salted meat for drying; the Matron didn't approve of her knife skills for this task, and wouldn't promote her to cutter.

Travel rations were prepared in abundance, and the youngest children were employed in bundling four meals' worth in the cloth bags the Men would be given on their way out of Mordor.

Knowing they were off to war made the Men more active with the whores in the barracks as well as the girls in the kitchens. By week's end, when the last company marched away, Madavi and both her friends had a few more coins each to brag of. Madavi shared hers with Smador. She felt it was the least she could do, since he continued to attend to her hands so well. That was what one did with coins, she supposed: pay for things. Though the Orc regarded them as merely interesting little novelties, he accepted them all the same.

In another week, the rumors began trickling in. There was a great battle far away. Their Master's enemies seemed to have prevailed, though anyone caught spreading _that_ bit of news was gutted on the spot. One too many killings, however, confirmed the reports: the army that marched was defeated. The even greater host that remained behind was now moved closer to the Gates. The Mannish barracks all but emptied.

When Madavi asked Smador if he'd heard anything about the war or if they were in any danger, he just shrugged.

"All's I know is, there's less shit tuh clear," he told her. "Yuh don't get noticed if yuh don't ask no questions. I like tuh not get noticed."


	5. Chapter 4: Quaking

**Chapter 4: Quaking**

There was a lull for several days after the Men left. The mess hall returned to the hands of its regulars, laborers and trainers who'd been elbowed aside and forced to take their meals elsewhere while the soldiers were there. Madavi's duties shifted back to normal. It was hard to believe anything dire could be happening beyond the walls of the tower; all within was just as unchanged as ever.

Yet the rumors continued to filter in. Madavi frowned deeply when Sima told her many Uruks and the newer arrivals, Uruk-hai from the west, were fortifying the positions on the walls, and that there were more of them than she'd ever seen in one place.

"You'd think the Master was... well, _scared_ or something," she whispered.

"Mind your tongue!" Pratima hissed before Madavi had a chance to. Pratima glanced about the kitchen, looking for the Matron. Thankfully, the old crone was clear on the other end, whacking a young boy for dropping a bowl of peeled taters on the floor. Pratima sighed with relief. "Don't you _dare_ say such things out loud. You know better than that."

The girls were doing the peeling today, handling their knives deftly. Except for Sima, whose skills in that area were lacking. Her job was to slice the peeled taters and rinse them off, then put them in the bowls for the runners to take to the stewpot.

"It's just what I heard," Sima pouted, then sucked in a breath as she cut her finger for the third time.

"You should know better than to spread gossip," Madavi whispered urgently. Her brow pinched with worry. "Two girls yesterday. A boy and girl the day before. You'd better stop listening or you'll get killed, too."

"I've heard Master only calls for his Uruk guard when he's...," Sima began, and Pratima smacked her upside the head.

"You're bleeding all over the place, Sima!" Pratima snapped loudly. "Go bind that cut."

"Yuh stupid fool!" the Matron snarled behind them, grabbing the startled Sima by the scruff. "We ain't cookin' for the Orcs! Yuh wanna go down to _their_ kitchens, do yuh? You won't be stirrin' the pot; you'll be _fillin'_ it! Get that seen to 'fore you spoil the lot!" Shoving the girl away, the Matron brought the switch down across Sima's back, producing a pained yelp and a quicker step. Then she turned baleful eyes on Pratima and Madavi, both busying themselves a little more vigorously than before.

"You two better take up'er slack, now," the old woman hissed, "or it's all three of yuh for the pot." Then the Matron turned and stalked away.

Pratima exchanged a relieved look with Madavi. Had any of them been caught talking about Master or his guards, they would have been reprimanded with far worse than an idle threat.

* * *

"Real quiet, I suppose," Smador shrugged when Madavi asked about things below. "We's like you lot, see? Mushrooms, all'uh us."

"Mushrooms?" she asked with surprise. "How are we like mushrooms?" They'd finished their meal and were taking advantage of the generally relaxed mood the soldiers left in their wake. Smador leaned back with his elbows on the step.

"Kept in the dark, fed a load'uh shit," he replied. Glancing up at her with a twinkle in his eye, he waited for her to respond. Her tittering laugh brought a smile to his dark face.

"We've been hearing about Uruks guarding the walls around the tower," Madavi reported when she'd composed herself.

"Hearin' the same down below," Smador nodded. "Ain't seen'em myself. They don't come visitin' in the tunnels." He chuckled at the thought. "Nar, too good for that sorta thing. They's the sort what makes the shit, not cleans it up. What I hears is they makes a lot'uh shit." He mimed snapping something in two. "Come down fer breedin' now and again. Me mum's been knocked up by one'er two in her time."

"Goodness," Madavi said with alarm. "Are they rough with Orcs as well as Men?"

Snorting, Smador grimaced. "Don't care, that lot. Heard some things, see. We's warned. Don't go pickin' at the guard, 'specially them Black Uruks, so ol' Smador don't pick at'em. Ain't much of me, and they's _big_. Big and mean. I know better'n tuh stick my neck out."

Madavi couldn't help smiling. "Yet you risk a beating every day to share meals with me."

Grinning sheepishly, he bumped her shoulder with his. "You's different, Madavi. Don't ask nothin', don't expect nothin'. Ain't somethin' I get much of. Didn't think I'd ever call a Man friend, but if I did, I'd call'er Madavi."

"We have plenty of folks telling us both what to do," Madavi explained. "Friends don't make demands; they take care of each other." Sighing contentedly, she added, "I think of you as a friend, too, Smador."

His smile was genuinely pleased, but only lasted a moment. His brow furrowed suddenly and his ears pricked. "Whassat?" he hissed, listening intently.

It took another moment for Madavi to hear, and only because she could _feel_ that something wasn't right. There was a noticeable tremor in the stone steps upon which they sat.

"What's happening?" she whispered fearfully, looking around the dim storeroom. Bags of flour toppled from shaking crates and split open on the floor. Extra pots and pans began sliding off the shelves. The noise they made, clattering on the stone, nearly drowned out the other sound that Smador's keen ears picked up before hers did: there was an inhuman, wailing cry from far above in the tower, growing in volume and strength.

The two of them stared at each other in rising panic; both knew something bad had happened, but Madavi had no idea what it could be. Smador, however, had a most uncomfortable look. His face contorted with something that didn't seem to be simple pain. Whatever ailed him went far deeper than that.

"Get on outta here," Smador finally said, leaping to his feet. He pulled Madavi up and pushed her up the stairs. "Go on."

At first, her shock kept her from protesting, then she shook herself and resisted. "No! What about you?"

"Don't mind me," he said quickly. "There's ways outta this place; I knows'em all. You get on out with yer folk. Shit's comin', and it ain't gonna wanna see _me_. It might be friendlier tuh you."

Madavi wavered with indecision. That anyone would hurt her friend was beyond her comprehension. She feared she'd never see him again if she left him now.

"Smador...," she whimpered.

"_Go on!_" he snarled. "Think I _wanna_ be worryin' 'bout yuh? Yer folk'll see yuh safe out. Git goin', now."

Throwing her arms about his neck, she sobbed with fear and grief, "You be careful. I don't want to worry about you, either."

"Don't... don't mind me," he growled hoarsely, awkwardly patting her back. She'd never embraced him before, and he seemed unsure how to respond. "Ol' Smador knows the way."

* * *

The halls were chaos. Slaves from all over the main tower were pushing and shoving their way out. The wailing ended moments after she left the storeroom, though it wasn't easily noticed in the din of screaming, panicked people. Madavi was caught up in the tide and struggled to stay on her feet. Some weren't so lucky; she could feel the stone floor give way to softer lumps as those who lost their balance were trampled.

She barely noticed how hard the tower was shaking.

The last hall led to a broad double door standing wide open. Wave after wave of slaves poured through at a dead run. As Madavi burst into the courtyard, she saw what looked like huge boulders of carved masonry littered about. Even as she wondered where they came from, another chunk broke off the main tower and plummeted into their midst. It was so large, it crushed an elaborately garbed woman from Upstairs and two slaves from the lower levels beneath it.

Madavi dodged past the obstacle without letting herself dwell on who the slaves might have been. The sound of the tower crumbling behind her was deafening; she didn't dare look back. Focusing on the wall around the towers of Barad'dûr, she made for them with all speed. A great horde of people was already piling up there, trying to open the gates.

Slowing to a trot, she embraced reason and didn't let herself get caught in the scrum at the gates. Aching from a stitch, she slowly turned, rubbing her cramped side. It had been a long time – months, perhaps – since she'd set foot outside. Her duties simply didn't require her to do so. But she knew what the tower looked like. It was not something you forgot once you'd seen it.

As she stood there staring at the tallest and most menacing structure she'd ever seen, the topmost spires slowly collapsed onto the ones below. She watched in horrified fascination as the once-great tower crumbled, sending up plumes of smoke and dust into the black-clouded sky. Billowing waves of dust erupted from the ground where the debris fell, stinging the eyes and choking the lungs. Her numb legs moved slowly in retreat; she could not seem to run away, even to save herself.

"Madavi!" a voice screamed, high-pitched with terror. Tearing herself from the appalling sight, Madavi spun around, searching for the one calling her. As she turned, she recognized what must be a group of _snaga_ Orcs going pell-mell on all fours, aiming for another breach in the wall made by the toppled eastern tower. The smoke and dust made seeing difficult; she only knew them as Orcs rather than Men by the way they moved. She couldn't be sure, but she fancied she could see Smador's particular shock of black hair among them, though from this distance and in the dusty air, they all looked exactly alike.

_Don't be a fool_, she told herself in despair. _He's just as likely to be beneath the tower still._

A hand on her arm distracted her from tears she didn't know were forming. In another heartbeat, she was in Pratima's embrace.

"Come along with us," the girl told her, urging Madavi to follow. They held hands tightly; the gates had been broken open and the slaves were streaming out. They feared being separated.

"Where's Sima?" Madavi asked anxiously as they joined the crowd sprinting out of the courtyard.

Pratima bit her lip and shook her head. "I don't know. I haven't seen her. I don't think..." She glanced over her shoulder, then squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. "I don't think she came out."

Madavi could only nod her understanding. The folk around them were mostly kitchen staff; the young boys and girls who did all the hard work of preparing and cleaning. She couldn't see their Matron, but she recognized older people who saw to the rooms upstairs or laundered the clothes for important guests. A good many men and women from the barracks were with them as well.

Her mind was numb, and she couldn't count them all. She didn't know where they were going, and didn't ask. She clung to Pratima's hand with all her might, determined not to lose _this_ friend.

* * *

Hundreds of slaves who survived the collapse of Barad'dur camped for the night in the open on the Plateau of Gorgoroth, but their stay wasn't long. They soon realized that whatever terrible fate befell their lord and master had caused the mountain of Orodruin to erupt as well. Lava floes crept across the land with unstoppable determination; the fleeing slaves had no choice but to race for the Towers of the Teeth in hopes of finding refuge there.

What they found instead was mass destruction on a scale they couldn't fathom. The Towers had collapsed; the great gates of the Morannon lay in ruins. The field was littered with many dead, and the enemy host was still there collecting their own fallen from among the master's forces.

By now, the slaves were exhausted and hungry, ready to trade their defeated master for another. Madavi huddled in the crowd with Pratima at her side, barely able to hear what was being said at the front. Incredulous whispers began filtering back, the most shocking of which was that they were _free_.

"_What_ did you say?" was the question most often asked, followed by "What does 'free' mean?" None knew; all of them, from the whimpering children sucking their thumbs to the aged crones barely able to stand, had only known a life of service to their master. Madavi wasn't even sure she'd _ever_ heard the word before now.

More words were spoken, and more information passed back. A king was telling them these things. A king from a land west of Mordor she'd never heard of. What he said was quite baffling.

"He's giving us Nûrn?" Pratima repeated without comprehension. She exchanged a look with Madavi; that was far to the south, a place they'd never seen. All they knew of it was that many Orcs came from there, and slaves now farmed the land in service to their master. It certainly wasn't something this stranger could _give_. Laughing bitterly, she scoffed, "Who does he think he is?"

"He's the one what's givin' us somethin' that ain't his," an older boy informed them. He snickered. "Don't expect he'll be too happy about what they're tellin' him up there. Nûrn's here in Mordor. Some of'em ain't interested."

Madavi grimaced at the blasted landscape and fume-choked skies. She didn't think being 'gifted' with land such as this was a very kind thing to offer.

"King what's-his-face up'ere says we can leave Mordor entire if we want," another man reported. His face was lined with toil and grimed with dust from the tower's fall. "Go west and settle our own place, or help rebuild what's been wrecked." The man's brow furrowed. "He don't say so, but... I suppose it were our master's doin'. Oughta... oughta do summat 'bout that."

Nodding quickly, Madavi agreed. "Yes, it's only fair. We should. Does he say who will take us? What lord we will serve?"

Her questions were relayed to the front. Madavi fretted as she waited for an answer. Pratima shifted nervously from foot to foot, chewing her lip.

The answer confounded all of them. The man's brow was deeply furrowed. "Ain't no master for us no more, he says. Keeps sayin' we're _free_. Know what that means?"

Everyone around him shook their heads.

"Anyway, he says there's farmland needin' worked on," the man continued with a shrug. "Livestock gotta be gathered back up. Homes rebuilt. Says anything we can manage, our help'll be welcome."

It was generally agreed among several groups of surviving slaves that they would strike out into the rich lands called Gondor and see what of their master's destruction they could undo, because it was only fair. The rest chose to accept the king's offer and head south to Nûrn to join the slaves already there tilling the land. A number of soldiers accompanied them, in case their overseers were unaware of the shift in power that just occurred.

Madavi and Pratima joined those leaving Mordor; they suspected only time would tell whether they'd made the right decision. As they passed the ruins of the only home she'd ever known, Madavi blinked back tears and tried not to think about her lost friend.


End file.
